


sunset season

by noturno



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angels, Blood and Injury, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fallen Angels, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Tangled (2010), Light Angst, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Relationship, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noturno/pseuds/noturno
Summary: ch. 2"What if he does?" Jaemin asks. "What if he's alive?""The prince?""Yes," Jaemin extends a hand to him, and Donghyuck takes it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Jaemin's hands are on his face now, cupping his cheeks gently. "What if someday he'll come home? Do you think they'll stop lighting up the lanterns then?"(Or, a collection for drabbles, by yours truly. Currently accepting requests!)
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Na Jaemin, Lee Jeno/Mark Lee
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48





	1. no halos

**Author's Note:**

> this used to be a compilation of alw december challenge works, but since i failed miserably at that, it's now a drabble dump collection! i'll be accepting drabble requests through [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/historic)
> 
> **theme index**
> 
> chapter 1: angel  
> chapter 2: fairytale  
> chapter 3: ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Who hurt you?_ , Mark wants to ask. _Who hurt you when you fell from heaven?_ But he's not that brave, or not that cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up angstier than i intended to but jengel lives on my mind rent free!!!!! i wish this was longer but i tried to stay within the 3k limit TT__TT who knows, i might revisit this concept in the future.
> 
> theme: angel (day 2)  
> pairing: mark/jeno  
> word count: 2946 words
> 
> warnings for: brief mentions of blood & sutures.

"Angel," Jeno muses. "That's what you call me?"

Mark hums. His hands work quick but his mind doesn't, so he`s careful — he's afraid that he'll fuck up if Jeno keeps trying to make small talk with him. He's so talkative; he talked all the way home once he deemed Mark worth of his trust. Talked about the weather, about the smell of Mark's shampoo, about the stray cats in the alley where Mark found him, about the blood on the curb. And Jeno, well, he turns his head to look at Mark over his shoulder, golden eyes waiting for an answer.

"Yes," he replies, finally, as he gently dabs a piece of cotton soaked in alcohol against the wound. "That's your name. Well, not your _name_. That's what you're called around here. Angel."

"Angel," Jeno repeats, as if he's tasting the word. He turns his head in the direction of the shower — fitting the two of them inside Mark's tiny bathroom is hard enough as it is, and his wing is uncomfortably folded against the sink cabinet. He doesn't seem to mind, and Mark thinks he's either growing numb to the pain or doesn't feel any at all. Maybe pain is a feeling for the mortal beings only. Maybe angels don't get to cry either. Not even the fallen ones.

"I'm almost done," Mark whispers. His arms are cramping and his hands are starting to shake a little — pain is a feeling for the mortal beings only —, and everything's so goddamn red that he's starting to reconsider it being his favorite color. Maybe angels don't feel pain, but they don't bleed gold either.

Or maybe that's just the fallen ones. He calmly ties Jeno's stitches together and asks: "Can you pass me the bandages?"

Jeno does so, handing them over his shoulder. Mark wraps it around his torso and shoulder carefully, the best way he can with the remaining wing on the way — but they make it work. Once he's done, Mark spends a few minutes looking at his handiwork so that he's sure it won't start bleeding again, and then taps Jeno's good shoulder gently.

"I'm done now."

Getting up is hard. Angels don't feel pain but Jeno is swaying on his feet once he gets up — his wing knocks over the things on Mark's sink when he stretches it slightly, and he says he's sorry and Mark waves it off dismissively. Maybe not having two wings anymore is throwing him off balance.

If anything, he didn't expect to be spending his Friday night like this — blood on the floor, blood on his shirt, blood on his hands. He settles Jeno on the couch before rushing to the bathroom again, to put away the first aid kit, to try and wash off all that mess from his hands. No, you see, he could be out; Donghyuck had bought tickets for a hockey match and texted him about it, the first time he reached out to him in what feels like ages. But Mark's been out of the rink for eight months now, and hasn't talked to Donghyuck for even longer, so he didn't reply.

And now, well... He heads back to the living room, and stands there near the TV rack awkwardly, observing the way Jeno's got his face buried in his hands, breath labored. Maybe angels don't feel pain, but something else. He turns on his heels in the direction of the kitchen, so he can occupy himself with his own humanity.

"I'm sorry—" Mark begins once he settles a bowl of noodles in front of Jeno on the coffee table. What do angels eat, anyway? Certainly not ramen, but he tried. "—that this has happened to you."

"It's fine," Jeno replies. His face is cut from marble, anyway, not a single tear on it — Mark can't say he isn't just a bit impressed, sitting cross legged in front of him, thinking of how it's impossible that anyone looks like this. But then again, _angels_. "I've been through worse. This is… ?"

"Spicy ramen," he replies. "I'm sorry. It's all I got. I was going to go grocery shopping when—"

He motions vaguely. Jeno lets out a low chuckle, and thanks him for the food though he can't eat it. Instead, he brings his knees to his chest, resting his feet on the couch's cushions, and closes his eyes for a second.

 _Who hurt you?,_ Mark wants to ask. _Who hurt you when you fell from heaven?_ But he's not that brave, or not that cruel. And as Jeno opens his golden eyes, looking at him with curiosity, he has to look away — his mother has always told him not to look directly at the sun.

"Thank you," Jeno tells him finally. "You saved me."

 _No_ , Mark wants to tell him, so many months later. _No,_ you _did that to me._

Jeno isn't his name, anyway.

He's told his name to Mark, countless times, it's just that he doesn't understand him, no matter how many times Jeno repeats it — whatever it is that angels speak, it's not something Mark's human ears can comprehend. It is the sound of dry leaves as the wind carries them, it is the sound of waves crashing violently against rocks at the beach, it's static noise, it's too many people talking at the same time, it's a whisper so low that your skin tingles from the wish to hear it. He opens his mouth and it comes out like nothing Mark has ever heard before, and so he suggests the closest thing to it: _Jeno_.

"You look like one, that's why," Mark tells him when he asks. It's half a lie. Jeno doesn't look like anything that exists in this world. But he smiles brightly at Mark from where he's perched upon his desk, basking in the sun through the window, and yeah, he looks like a Jeno. Mark can see a Jeno in him.

"If you were an angel," Jeno replies. "You'd be—"

Mark tries to repeat it, whatever he just said, He fails, of course. Sounds like gibberish on his mouth and Jeno laughs like bells ringing and like thunderstorms, all together somehow. Mark asks him to say it again, and he does, and then Mark asks for it one more time, and Jeno complies. They leave it like that.

"Do your friends never come here?" Jeno asks him one morning. His stitches are gone by now, and sometimes he stretches his hand and touches the jagged scar on his back through his shirt when he thinks Mark isn't looking. And the shirt, well, Mark is good with needles and threads, he sews a button up around him every morning.

"I don't have friends," Mark replies, which is sad when you say it to anybody, but sadder when you admit it to an angel. Even if it's a fallen one. "I used to, but I don't talk to them anymore."

"Why?"

"It's… Complicated."

Jeno hums. He looks over to where Mark has a picture framed on the wall — he should get rid of it, but can't bring himself to. And Jeno is naturally curious, so he keeps looking at it for a long time, and Mark can't help but look at it too.

He's not going to lie. He misses being on the rink. He misses the ice, and he misses the smell of his jersey, he misses the rumble of an energetic crowd, and he misses—

"Humans are complicated," Jeno comments. He goes back to chewing on the biggest cheeseburger Mark could find for him.

"Yeah," Mark nods. "Yeah, Jeno, we are."

He supposes angels must be complicated too, but can't bring himself to ask why — it's been months since the day he got an angel bleeding on his bathroom floor. Mark's thrown his shirt out, ruined for good, and there's no way to hide Jeno's wing so he never goes out, and so Mark tells him stories. His work, the people he sees on the street, his childhood memories, the plot of his favorite TV show, the story behind a family recipe. He's been talking more than he's done in years, as Jeno nudges him on the ribs, what's this, what's that, why, when, who?

Sometimes Mark's throat is sore from talking. Jeno stopped being afraid of the kettle around two weeks ago, so he makes him tea. "Be careful or you'll burn yourself," Mark reminds him once he catches Jeno eyeing the lit up stove with curiosity, his hand dangerously close to the flames. "Do angels burn?"

"I don't know," Jeno replies.

"Let's not find out, okay?"

Jeno turns the stove off. "Do humans burn?" he asks, and Mark nods. Jeno pours tea for the both of them. "Humans are not only complicated, but also so fragile. A change of the wind and you're swept away."

"I'm trying my best not to get swept away," Mark responds, as if it answers anything. He supposes it does, because Jeno smiles sweetly as he sets a mug of steamy tea in front of him and hops onto one of the stools by the counter.

The first time he touches Jeno's wing, it's— it's _different_.

They're standing in the kitchen, under the refrigerator light because it's broken and Mark is following a WikiHow tutorial on how to fix it, and Jeno is curled up by his side, feathers ticking Mark's arm as he works before he extends a hand and says _let me try, who knows if I'm not good at fixing human things like you are at fixing heavenly things?_

So Mark steps back, watches as Jeno steps forward, fiddling with the thermometer, and his wing stretches out lazily and freely, the tip of his feathers touching the counters — he doesn't have much space here, in Mark's shoebox apartment, and it makes him wonder what it's like to fly. He wonders if Jeno misses it, and he probably does. He doubts that anyone and anything who has ever experienced flying would not miss it.

He reaches out, it's purely out of reflex — the feathers are soft to the touch. Black like charcoal, a few teal highlights here and there. They weren't like this, they used to be as white as clouds, like Jeno's hair. And he has touched this wing before, of course; back at that alley, Jeno had wrapped it around himself, had tried to push Mark away with it when he got too close. _You'll die if you don't let me help you,_ Mark had told him. _I can't let you die, please, let me help you._ He had never seen an angel before, and he was terrified at the blood on all those snow white feathers, he gently pushed it aside to take a look at the creature hiding behind it.

And now, well, now it's different. Jeno looks back at him with widened eyes — they're turning from gold to black slowly over time —, and Mark retreats his hand. He remembers how Jeno looked like when he first touched him. If a gaze could kill, that would be the end of him right there. One never forgets the eyes of a fallen angel. But right now they're way gentler, those eyes of his.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, Jeno, I wasn't thinking straight."

Jeno's eyes curl into half-moons, and he goes back to his task. "It's alright," he replies. "You can touch. I really don't mind."

Mark lets out a long sigh of relief.

"So, I was thinking."

"You do that a lot?"

"Ha, you think you're so funny. Anyway, what do angels eat?" Mark asks him. "What did you eat up there in Heaven? Do you remember?"

"Ambrosia," Jeno replies. "Tons of it. I could have it whenever I wanted."

He makes a face. "The thing with eggs?"

"No," Jeno laughs. His shoulders shake with it, and a lonely feather falls from his wing. Nonchalant, Jeno picks it up and puts it inside the pocket of his hoodie. "No, it's nothing like that. It's… Say, if you were to eat it, you'd burst into flames."

"Because it's so good?"

"Yes. And because you're human, therefore you can't eat it. You'd just burst into flames."

Mark hums. "Do you miss it?"

Jeno shrugs. He scratches his arm lazily, and then cuddles up to Mark's side on the couch. "Sometimes," he reaches out, and takes Mark's hand in his — he's been doing that a lot. The touching thing. He seems to enjoy the warmth of Mark's skin. "But McDonald's is _so_ good."

"We seriously need to stop eating so much junk food," Mark tells him. Jeno turns his palm upwards and presses his thumb right to the middle of it. Mark's heart does a flip. Jeno doesn't notice, naturally. "I need you to start liking vegetables. Can you do that for me, hm?"

Jeno shakes his head negatively. Well, at least he tried.

The feathers have been falling nonstop. Mark finds them between the couch cushions, in his clothes, tangled in the sheets, even in his hair — Jeno tries to pick them all before he notices, but Mark thinks he might not be able to keep up with the speed at which they fall.

"I need you to stay still."

"I'm trying," Jeno replies. He's gripping at the edge of the sink with so much strength that Mark's afraid he'll break it, his knuckles white, and Mark's own hands are trembling. "I can handle it. Just do it."

"I—" Mark swallows dry. "I'm _trying_."

He's done this before. He can do it. He was afraid Jeno would ask him to rip it out, but he didn't need to — it fell off. It fell off in Mark's hands this morning. _I think there's something wrong with me_ , Jeno had told him. _Help me, Mark, I think there's something wrong with me_. It probably didn't even hurt, like a milk tooth that naturally disconnects from your gum, but Mark's hands are shaking as he begins the suture.

This time, Jeno cries. He curses under his breath but he's been forgetting the words — nothing he says sounds like the summer rain anymore. Mark squeezes his waist for a moment and gets back to work, doesn't look at the mirror, does it as fast as he can and then holds Jeno through it once he's done, the both of them standing in their tiny bathroom, Jeno's left arm thrown tightly around his neck and the other held between their chests because it hurts to move. Pain is a feeling for the mortal beings only, anyway.

Naturally, Mark gives him painkillers later. They didn't work before but they do now, and Jeno blinks drowsily at him with irises as dark as the night, bottom lip jutting out in a permanent pout. He has to sleep on his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, and Mark lays by his side for hours, telling him about all the times he injured himself and had his teammates sleeping on the floor of his old dorm room.

"They were always so ready to take care of me," Mark tells him like a secret. Jeno laughs softly — he curled up closer to him somewhere through the night, one arm bent under his head and the shoulder that's not wrapped in bandages warm under Mark's touch. He doesn't tell the whole story, anyway, because he doesn't want him to be sad. Doesn't tell him about his last injury, about quitting the team, about the fight with Donghyuck, about ignoring all of Sicheng's texts asking him to come back before they eventually came to a stop. It's fine, it's alright, he's been getting better at dealing with it lately — a few days ago Jeno convinced him to meet up with Ten for coffee, and he's been talking to Sungchan through texts, he doesn't avoid Yangyang's street anymore, and he's getting better. They all are, thanks to Jeno.

In a spur of courage, Mark adds: "I'll take care of you."

"You don't have to," Jeno replies. "It's too much work."

"Not to me."

Jeno hums, closing his eyes. When Mark wakes up, the sun is barely up and he's sitting back on his haunches on the bed, watching him, and Mark rubs the sleep off his eyes as he asks: "What are you doing?"

"This," Jeno responds, leaning in, and holds himself up in one arm to kiss him.

Mark gasps. "But your _shoulder._ "

"It doesn't hurt," he presses his mouth to Mark's cheek, to his jaw, to the tip of his nose, and finally— "It doesn't hurt, really. And isn't this what humans like to do? What _you_ like to do?"

 _Angels don't kiss,_ Jeno had told him. _That's the saddest thing you ever told me_ , Mark had replied, only a little disappointed at the particularities of heavenly life. He lets out a sigh when Jeno does it again, and cards his fingers through now silky black hair — it's mostly teeth on teeth, Jeno giggling at his own inexperience, and eventually Mark has to push him off before he ends up pulling his stitches.

"Thank you," Jeno tells him finally.

"For the kisses?" Mark asks tentatively.

" _No_ ," Jeno replies. "Well, yes. For it all. You saved me."

How does a human save an angel, anyway? Sometimes, when Mark wakes up and the bed is empty, he fears he had dreamed it. But Jeno is as real as it can get, his skin warm under Mark's touch, mouth-kissed lips, eyes that don't burn, and Mark sits up to cup his face with a hand. "No," he replies as he leans in. "No, _you_ did that to me."


	2. sunlight, sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's no one here to stop me anymore," Jaemin repeats. He opens his eyes and looks at him. "I want to see it. I want to see all those lights on my twentieth birthday. Can you— Donghyuck, can you take me there? I… I want to go there. I want to go there with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theme: fairytale (day 3)  
> pairing: donghyuck/jaemin  
> word count: 2905 words

Donghyuck is getting tired of climbing up the tower on his own.

"That doesn't sound like my problem," Jaemin says where he's perched up on the mezzanine where his bed is located. He's been painting little stars on the fence, the kind of patience that Donghyuck himself doesn't have, so he appreciates Jaemin for it. "You're the one who keeps coming back here. I told you that I'm fine on my own."

"You are not fine on your own," Donghyuck replies. He's been sitting on the small dinner table; Jaemin doesn't really let him roam around the tower. It's more than enough space to live comfortably, for sure, but Jaemin doesn't let him near the bookcases, or the painting weasels. "If I'm not here to bring you food, you'd starve to death. Which is why you should consider—"

Jaemin deadpans: "I'm not leaving."

"Why?"

He doesn't reply. They've had this same discussion countless times already. Ever since Donghyuck found this tower, around six months ago, Jaemin is just as adamant about leaving as he was on the day they met.

Less aggressive, for sure. Adamant, but at least he doesn't want to smash Donghyuck's skull with a frying pan anymore — and he has tried. Donghyuck didn't peg him for the fighter type, but he soon enough learned not to make assumptions about Jaemin. Now he just sits there, on his mezzanine, and complains about all of Donghyuck's life options. _Why be a thief and bring hell to people's lives when you can just chill?,_ he asks twice a day. _Why lock yourself up on a tower when no one is around to force you to be here anymore?_ , Donghyuck replies. Even though Jaemin is a talker, he never really answers that.

"I brought you fresh fruit this time," Donghyuck comments. "Bet you haven't seen a peach in ages."

"No, I've only been seeing you recently."

He rolls his eyes. Jaemin lets a small giggle and Donghyuck turns around to watch him, resting his chin on the back of the chair.

Truth be told, he doesn't know why he keeps coming back here. Anyone with a brain wouldn't — the tower is a pain to get to, and Jaemin is a pain to deal with. But if Donghyuck doesn't come, who will? Who will bring Jaemin food and fresh water, who will make sure that he's not dead? And who will, well… Jaemin can take care of himself just fine, but Donghyuck doubts that a frying pan is a useful weapon against more than one person.

He's not… He doesn't want to feel _responsible_. But he does. And if Jaemin didn't want him around, he could simply lock the window — and he never does. So Donghyuck keeps coming back to him.

Eventually, as he always does, Jaemin gets down from the mezzanine, and approaches Donghyuck's bag with curiosity. This time, it's mostly fruit, some vegetables and bread — sometimes he's able to find, well, _steal_ meat and even something sweet, but it has been a hard week so far.

"I don't like these," Jaemin tells him as he pushes a small bag of wild strawberries in Donghyuck's direction. "You can have them."

Donghyuck is only mildly disappointed — it was a pain to get these. He waited all morning until some old lady stopped working on her garden so he could sneak inside and grab some. "Alright," he replies, and promptly shoves some inside his mouth. "What else don't you like?"

Jaemin shrugs. He eats bits and pieces of bread, leaning his chin on his hand, and then keeps watching Donghyuck with eyes this big.

Objectively speaking, Jaemin is good looking. He has big eyes, a nice smile when he thinks Donghyuck isn't looking, his cheeks have a natural pink blush to it, and his hair is a nice shade of blonde, falling just a bit past his shoulders, and it's always neatly brushed. He sews his own clothes and he's got at it, so they're always nice looking. If he were out there, he'd probably be one of those guys that could get any girl he wanted, would probably have a whole queue of suitors waiting for him to say the word.

But here he is instead. He's nineteen and he has never left this tower. Donghyuck doesn't know the full story yet, but he's getting there. _They'll_ be getting there eventually.

One of these times that he visits, it's right before a storm — the rocks are slippery as he climbs due to the drizzle, and his clothes are drenched by the time he makes it to the top. Jaemin doesn't actually say anything, doesn't even tease him for it, and he leaves a spare change of clothes for him before climbing up his mezzanine.

"You don't like storms, do you?" Donghyuck asks as he changes. He can't see what Jaemin is up to, which is common, but the fact that he's so silent is unnerving. "I don't like them either."

He thinks that Jaemin might have answered, but thunder has drowned his words. Donghyuck rubs a hand against his face, sighing. Jaemin's clothes are comfortable and smell nice, and he leaves his own displayed out near the window — when the sun comes up, if it _ever_ comes up again, since the storm looks so bad, they'll get dry in no time.

Once he's done, Donghyuck gets up. The tower's messier than it was the last time, a bunch of books scattered over the floor, the chairs and the dinner table on the other side of the room. For a moment, he wonders if someone broke in, but Jaemin's legs dangle from the fence on the mezzanine now, and as Donghyuck looks up, he says:

"I'm changing some things around here. Don't you think it'd be nicer to have lunch with a view to the big waterfall instead of the mountains?"

Donghyuck sighs, and lets out a small laugh. "Yeah, that'd be nicer. Though you could have waited for me, I'd help you move around the furniture."

Jaemin drums his fingers on the wood. He's silent for a while, and then comments: "I didn't think you'd come back this time."

He didn't, either. The last time Donghyuck was around, they fought. Jaemin had thrown the frying pan at him, he was so mad — Donghyuck was mad, too. But the satisfaction after every fight only lasts for so long, and Donghyuck spent the following days sleeping on the back of a dirty pub in a town miles away from here, unable to stop thinking about Jaemin alone in his stupid tower.

"I'll always come back," Donghyuck replies. "As long as you let me."

"Okay," Jaemin nods. "You can sleep here if you want."

Donghyuck laughs. "And here I was under the impression that you'd kick me out in the rain. Not gonna lie, though, your floor always looked so comfy to me."

"What? You're not sleeping on the _floor_."

Donghyuck frowns. The last time he checked, Jaemin didn't have a couch, or a spare bed. Thinking about it now, how did anyone get furniture up in this tower? Maybe there's a secret staircase that Jaemin's been keeping from him. Maybe even an elevator.

"Well, the table—"

"Donghyuck," Jaemin says. "There's plenty of space for you up here."

"Oh,"

"Yeah," Jaemin pulls his knees up. "But if you'd rather sleep on the floor..."

Donghyuck gets up, heading for the stairs. He can hear Jaemin laughing as he takes the steps up to the mezzanine. The whole place is different from what he thought, but it makes sense. A mattress against the wall, stacks of books here and there, and Donghyuck is curious by nature so he leans in to inspect the last of Jaemin's handiwork on top of a desk — he's been fixing an old jacket that Donghyuck brought for him quite some time ago.

Neither of them can stand upright in the mezzanine, so he simply sits back on his heels and looks at where Jaemin is already laying on the mattress, a book on his face. And Donghyuck can't help himself, so he says:

"You know, if you leave, you could get a nice job as a tailor. Hell, blondie, maybe you could even be the Queen's tailor."

Jaemin lets out a long hum. When Donghyuck lays down by his side, he puts the book down and looks at him. "I have something to ask of you."

"Yeah?" Donghyuck smiles. There's a lamp right beside Jaemin's head, and it casts a warm light on his face. "Special requests from your favorite thief? I bet you want those cherry scones."

"No, those were pretty good, but it's not that," Jaemin shakes his head, and then, he sits up. Donghyuck watches as he goes through a stash of papers, and then leans back on the mattress with an illustration in hands. Donghyuck scoots closer to him to take a look. "Alright, here's the thing. Every year, on my birthday, the sky lights up. I can see it from my window. Have _you_ ever seen it?"

He leans the piece of parchment paper in Donghyuck's direction — it's a beautiful drawing. Jaemin is a terrific artist as well. And Donghyuck recognizes it straight away. Every year, the people in this kingdom light up lanterns to celebrate a long lost prince, in hopes that he'll find his way home. He grew up hearing that story, anyway. It sounds more like a fairy tale to him.

"Yes, I have," he replies. "It's a beautiful celebration. It— it takes place on your birthday, really?"

Jaemin nods as he carefully folds the drawing, holding it to his chest. "When I was a kid, I used to think it was for me. And my mom—" he closes his eyes, eyebrows furrowed. "The woman that used to care for me, she told me to forget about it. She didn't like it when I asked about it, but now she's..."

"Gone," Donghyuck suggests. There's no sign of anyone coming here aside from him. "There's no one here to stop you anymore."

"There's no one here to stop me anymore," Jaemin repeats. He opens his eyes and looks at him. "I want to see it. I want to see all those lights on my twentieth birthday. Can you— Donghyuck, can you take me there? I… I want to go there. I want to go there with you."

He stays silent for a while, unable to speak, and Jaemin keeps looking at him with those big eyes of him, hair like a halo around his head, bottom lip between his teeth as he waits. Could Donghyuck ever say no to him?

"I'll take you there," he says. "Blondie, I'll take you anywhere you want."

"I used to have longer hair," Jaemin tells him as he pulls Donghyuck up with a hand. He's stronger than he looks — taller than Donghyuck, too. Jaemin never let him get too close, so he didn't notice before. "That's my story. It was so long, I used to be able to pull someone from the ground with it. That's how I got my mom— that's how I got the woman that looked after me up there all the time. With my hair."

Donghyuck is out of breath. He had lost his footing as they hiked up a hill, and he'd be so mad if he died falling from this rather than the goddamn tower he climbed so many times, but Jaemin is stronger than he looks and he keeps a hand on Donghyuck's shoulder while he's still kneeling on the ground, panting heavily.

"That's not humanly possible," he breathes out. "That's for fairy tales only. It's like saying that the prince is still alive, somewhere — people light those lanterns up because they're too fond of fairy tales, blondie. Because they think he'll find his way home with them, but he won't."

"What if he does?" Jaemin asks. "What if he's alive?"

"The prince?"

"Yes," Jaemin extends a hand to him, and Donghyuck takes it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Jaemin's hands are on his face now, cupping his cheeks gently. "What if someday he'll come home? Do you think they'll stop lighting up the lanterns then?"

Donghyuck licks his lips. "I don't know. If they stop, I'll light one for you. Every year, on the 13th of August, I'll light one up for you. You'll just have to look up at the sky and it will be there. So you'll remember me."

"That's silly. You're going to be there, why would I need to remember you?"

Right. Donghyuck nods, and Jaemin brushes a thumb against his cheekbone tenderly. "Yeah, how silly of me, huh?" he asks, and Jaemin rolls his eyes as he pulls away.

For the rest of the journey, they have to keep away from the main roads because thiefs walk in flocks — "And why don't you?" Jaemin teased, and Donghyuck didn't reply —, and so do the King's men, and Donghyuck tears every WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE sign with his face on it from trees and walls like his life depends on it. Perhaps it does. He doesn't say anything, just sits there eating nuts and fruit and watching over their little fire pits every time they settle down for the night. When they're cuddled up near the fire to sleep, he eventually nudges Donghyuck on the ribs and asks:

"What's _your_ story? What did you steal, for all these people to be after you?"

"A crown," he replies. "The lost prince's crown. I had a job in the castle, and it was right _there_ ," Donghyuck sighs. "My family needed the money, I had a sick brother. I took it. I sold it. And then I fled. I think they found the crown, but I've been on the run ever since."

"Oh," Jaemin breathes. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It was a long time ago."

"You can't go back, then," Jaemin muses. "You can't take me there tomorrow. They'll have you locked up."

"I'll take you as far as I can," Donghyuck promises him. He reaches for Jaemin's hand in the dark. "If they catch me, they catch me. I'll still take you there."

Jaemin nods. He turns on his side, facing him, and leans in, his lips landing on the corner of Donghyuck's mouth. He wants to ask: _what is this for, blondie?_ But Donghyuck knows what it's about. It's goodbye.

It won't be long until the first lanterns light up the sky. Donghyuck didn't mean to, but he had to steal a horse, though he left a few peaches at the stable, though, so it must mean something.

Every year, the lanterns are so pretty. And Jaemin looked so pretty as he slept, before Donghyuck got up and took his things — he's never been good with goodbyes. He lets out a sigh.

The road ahead of him is a clear path. Everybody's too busy with the lantern festival. He could just go; if he doesn't have Jaemin to visit anymore, he could just go. Leave once and for all.

Donghyuck looks back, just one last time. Then he gets the horse moving.

"You look ridiculous with that thing, did you know that?"

Donghyuck lets out an offended gasp as he brings a hand up to his wig. It's the worst he could find — big and colorful, like the ones people wear at carnival fairs. "Sorry if I didn't want to miss your birthday," he says, and Jaemin is laughing as he holds onto the boat's paddles. "It's just— it doesn't make sense, blondie. If I never see you again, they might as well lock me up when we go back to the lakeshore."

"Don't be so dramatic," Jaemin responds. "We'll figure something out. And I'm… I'm glad you're here. Thank you for that."

Donghyuck smiles. "Any time, blondie."

Rolling his eyes, Jaemin sets the paddles aside. They're in the middle of the lake now, near the castle, it's a perfect spot. Were Donghyuck to look, he'd find countless of bigger boats around them, ready to set the sky alight, but he doesn't have eyes for that now. He doesn't care for the light.

"You have to stop calling me that," Jaemin tells him.

"What would you prefer? _Darling_?"

Jaemin shrugs, a smug expression on his face. "Fine with me. And then maybe I can call you—"

His voice dies out. He sits up straight so quickly, the boats sways, and Donghyuck wants to hold onto the edges but Jaemin reaches out for his hands, holding on tight. " _Donghyuck_ ," he breathes out. "Donghyuck, would you look at that."

The sky lights up — every year, it's all of a sudden. The lanterns float in the air like magic, like a dream, yellow spots in the night sky as a message of hope. _Come home_ , they say. _We're waiting for you_. And Jaemin's hands are curled tight around his, wonder in his face as he looks up.

Sure, sure, maybe it would be a whole different experience if Donghyuck wasn't watching it through his eyes. He doesn't care. He doesn't care for the lights. Donghyuck brings Jaemin's hands up and plants a kiss on his knuckles, and when Jaemin finally looks back at him, it's like the sky is new — all bright and all real. At last Donghyuck sees the light now.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twt](https://twitter.com/prodbybx)


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